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A Passion in Winter

by Irene Landry Kelso

300 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0078; ISBN 1-55212-414-2; US$25.00, C$30.77, EUR20.00, £13.90

A Passion in Winter is a historical novel that evokes a pivotal year in Canada's history (1759) that forever changed the city of Quebec and its people.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book A Passion in Winter is a historical novel that evokes a pivotal year in Canada's history (1759) that forever changed the city of Quebec and its people. During the Seven Years War (1756 - 1763) the scales tipped between the two empires, France and England. British balance-of-power was to keep France from controlling Europe. North America became the chief concern of these two great powers. In the battle for Canada, France lost. After the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, the British army occupied the City of Quebec. General James Murray with some of his officers, the Fraser Highlanders, took over a wing of the Ursuline Convent for his headquarters. Conquerors and the conquered had to survive that bitter winter of 1759-1760. A tender love story develops between a novice nun and a Fraser Highlander. A Passion in Winter mourns loss of country, as well as political and private loves in life's brevity, but it also celebrates determination of a people to survive.

About the Author Irene Landry Kelso, of Acadian heritage, is originally from Moncton, New Brunswick. In her early years she emigrated with her family to the United States and was educated in bilingual schools in New England. A former Rhode Islander, she was a newspaper reporter for The Pawtucket Times. She later combined fiction writing with historical research and travelled to Canada, France, England, and Spain compiling data for two novels. She has a degree from the Henry Jackson School of International Studies - Canadian Studies, University of Washington. She lives in Seattle, Washington. You may e-mail the author at irenelkelso@gateway.net

Sample Excerpts

from Chapter Six

On the eighteenth of October, one month after the formal capitulation of the city of Quebec, Admiral Sir Charles Saunders with Brigadier-General George Townshend and most of the British fleet in the St. Lawrence River since June, lifted anchor and started the return to England. The citadel fired a farewell salute and the whole town shook. The three-decker Royal William carried Wolfe's embalmed body.

On the twenty-third, General Murray received orders by special runners from the Commander-in-Chief of the North American campaign, Brigadier-General Jeffrey Amherst, stationed in upper New York. The orders stated that he was to act as Governor of Quebec. Murray was left with seven thousand men, only five thousand of whom were fit. Sir Guy Carleton was appointed his aide.

Mother Marie Migeon de Bransac, thinking of the preservation of the colony, went to chapel with her nuns to say prayers for their new Governor. She felt he would be a fair man in all difficult dealings ahead and that he would be just. "Please God," she murmured.

Jean-Paul Boisvert watched the fleet leave. He stood alone on the highest rock overlooking Lower Town. He had not come to Quebec alone today. Juliette Duchaineau accompanied him. A neighbor and childhood friend, she brought hooked rugs to barter with Anaïse in the new shop. Juliette wanted to trade and exchange rugs for bed linens for her family's household. There was a quantity of linens left by a few of the nobility before their hurried return to France. At this very moment, she was negotiating with Anaïse.

Jean-Paul continued to gaze at the departing ships as the cannons boomed. They had done their work well.

from Chapter Nine

Early Christmas Eve, one of General Murray's Lieutenants came to Mother Migeon's study with a note. The General wanted to see her for a few moments.

She granted this request with a fixed time. It would be after the last detail was attended to in the chapel for the Midnight Mass.

Two subalterns accompanied Murray with a wooden locker. He was in full dress uniform. Mother Migeon knew there was a lot of celebrating tonight, on the ships as well as in the officers' quarters in the billeted wing of her own convent and throughout the city.

"What is this?" She folded and hid her hands within her huge sleeves.

"With your permission, Mother Migeon, a special offering of sherry. I learned from Mother Philomène that moose pie, she called it something I am unable to pronounce, is on the menu for your Christmas dinner tomorrow. This is an accompaniment for everyone housed in the convent."

"Tourtière, General, it's a meat pie. That's what Mother Philomène is baking. She has very deft fingers with spices, she sprinkles a little of this and that and something wonderful comes out."

"I can smell it. It must be delicious, this sherry will go well with it."

He opened the locker and displayed the crockery bottles expansively.

Mother Migeon bowed graciously. She knew she couldn't refuse him his grand gesture. "We are grateful for your offering, General."

They both knew she had found the soft spot in his heart. He couldn't wish her a happy Christmas, nor could she, they couldn't exchange these jovial wishes. It certainly was not a happy Christmas. His army had invaded her city, her convent. But they could invoke the peace of Christmas. General Murray had reached that moment of Christmas that comes to all mankind. It was that special moment he had to share with this formidable woman. And there was a style, not a submission, that she had. All the nuns had it. An indefinable air that even the angels in heaven, if there were such, could not match. What was it? This mysterious attribute of serenity that all nuns seemed to possess. Mother Migeon, this Mother Superior that he was working with, was never overly gracious or condescending yet her manner placed him, without doubt, of just where he stood. He could not cross this line. But he was a General, he reminded himself.

With a little smile, Mother Migeon accepted his moment of Christmas that he wanted to share with her, for weren't they going to rebuild the convent together? And at some moment on this magic night, Christmas came to every man, woman and child. It came and touched all hearts.

After the bowing and the closing amenities, Murray and his officers took leave of her. They went off to celebrate. The Anglicans would have their service in the convent chapel tomorrow.

As she glided down the hall to gather her nuns for the great feast of Christ, Mother Migeon thought, yes, she would allow the English sherry at Christmas dinner. Why not? They needed a little sparkle in their tired, cold hearts. The ornaments in the pine boughs that her youngest nuns had fashioned with beads and bark would scintillate in the community hall at dinner time.

But tonight, Midnight Mass would be the highest moment for them all. They would receive the Christ child in their hearts. They would all sing, "Minuit Chrétien, c'est l'heure solonelle. . . ." All over the world, it was the moment to forgive and be forgiven.

Early Christmas morning Marie-Louise prepared the chapel for the children's Mass. The few older children housed in the convent with their families had attended the Midnight Mass, the Mass of the Dawn and Mass of the Day following. Now, there would be a Low Mass at nine o'clock for all the younger children including the Hurons who usually came in from their village to visit the Ursulines on Christmas day.

Marie-Louise yawned sleepily as she smoothed the ceremonial altar cloth. The odor of incense still hung in the air. The English service would probably be at eleven o'clock. At three o'clock, Mother Migeon would take the Huron children to Vespers then there would be a light repast for all in the community room. That was the schedule.

As she genuflected at the main altar, she wondered how the Hurons celebrated Christmas in their village. From the polished floor, she picked up a stiff white paper box. She had sewed it together on all sides with thin gold thread entwined with red and green woolen strings. It was filled with maple sugar balls. All the nuns who had kitchen duty the past week had helped Mother Philomène make hundreds of the spiced sugar maple balls for the children. There was always maple sugar and syrup in the pantry, even when they were all starving for regular fare.

"Baume du Canada" Montcalm had called it when he had sent some home to Candiac.

In the hall, on the way to the townspeople's quarters, she met Ian.

"I especially wanted to greet you today, Sister Madeleine."

She smiled. "Yes, it's Christ's birthday. How do you keep Christmas at home, in Scotland?"

"We have a small chapel in our home, so we have Midnight Mass for my mother's sake. She usually invites a priest from France for the holidays. People from the surrounding countryside join us for dinner on Christmas day then we go riding with the dogs," he reminisced. He felt a surge of homesickness. Then he looked curiously at the festive paper box she was holding. "What do you have there?"

"Bon-bons, maple sugar balls for the children. Have one."

He hesitated. "Well, maybe one. I could hardly deprive the children of their treats."

"Have two, or more. Mother Philomène made a huge crock full. And even extras for St. Nicholas," she winked. She felt light and at ease with him this morning. She thought of other Christmas mornings, at home in Beauport with Jean-Paul.

Ian thought the wink charming and he envisioned her without her head coif as he gingerly scooped two of the sugary delicacies into his hand.

"The choir at Midnight Mass is the most beautiful I ever heard. You all sing like angels."

"I didn't see you."

"You were too busy," he smiled.

"Yes." She lowered her eyes.

"Sister Madeleine, Sister Madeleine, you're wanted at the parlor." The portress's voice was loud and clear.

"I must go." Marie-Louise fluttered away down the glistening parquet floor.

Ian stood looking after her with the gift of the sugar bon-bons moistening in his hand. Then he hurried to his headquarters and deposited them in his pewter rum cup. When would he eat them? He would save them forever. He smiled. There would be posted orders in the Place d'Armes today like on any other day. He must get to it. The Anglican service would be at eleven. He wondered where Captain Leslie's scouting party was at the moment, it was long overdue.

There would be extra rations of rum for everyone today. The fragrance of baking tourtières permeated the whole convent. Ian hoped the officers would be offered some. His mouth watered. He thought of his family in far-off Scotland as he wrote up the Orders of the Day.

Christmas day in the war-torn city passed rather well, Marie-Louise thought as she helped Mother Philomène put away dinner plates in the armoire. The kitchen windows were steamed with vapors rising from hot water in the copper tubs.

The aroma of the spiced tourtières still hung in the huge kitchen and down the halls. The accompaniment of General Murray's sherry gift had put them all in a light mood. "But please God," Marie-Louise whispered. "It's our first and last Christmas in war time." She was exhausted and stifled a yawn.

Winter had come to stay and held the city in its grip. The snow remained piled up to the roof tops. In spite of bitter cold, the sun was bright and its warmth at this time of late afternoon made some icicles drip. When would they all return to normal routine? Marie-Louise shook her head pensively. There was no answer to that. There were other young novices like herself who had not yet taken vows. Now that their world had been turned upside down, the city bombed, their convent occupied, exactly when would that be? Not even the Reverend Mother herself knew. Their ailing Bishop was in Montreal for the remainder of the winter.

No one had gone hungry today. Thanks to Mother Philomène and her staff, they had worked long hours to produce the welcome abundance of meat pies. Everyone had been fed more than amply, the sick in the wards, the townspeople occupying the basement and gift pies had even been offered to the Highlanders.

Marie-Louise caught her second breath, she felt light as she prepared to go to evening prayers. Was it because she had seen Captain Lindsay, Ian, that morning? Long enough to offer him a few sugar balls. Where was he now? Celebrating on one of the ships? She blushed. He occupied her thoughts constantly. Was God going to strike her down dead if she continued to think of him? But no, of course not, she reassured herself. Nevertheless, he awakened emotions she didn't know about, didn't know she had inside her. Now, all these emotions were beginning to come out. They rushed alongside of her prayers, her vigils, her meditations. Was it noticeable? How was she to deal with this? The Reverend Mother must not be aware of this change in her. But there was hardly anything Mother Migeon de Bransac was not aware of. Voyons donc! Right now, the Reverend Mother's main concern was their lack of shoes and they were cut off from France for reorders.

At the close of evening prayers, Marie-Louise bowed her head in her choir stall. She asked God's blessing on all of them, on Quebec and the continued restoration of the city. After her meditations, she would go and visit little Joseph. That too would be part of her Christmas. She was becoming so attached to that little baby. An assault of homesickness swept over her. She thought of her mother, Jean-Paul, the whole family. What were they doing today at the Boisvert farm house in Beauport? C'est Noël!

The peace of Christmas day was broken when Captain Leslie's contingent finally returned. They stumbled into the convent foyer with the help of their fellow officers. They were exhausted and frost-bitten and were brought to the hospital ward. The nuns in charge bustled about and attended them immediately with every needed care.

from Chapter Fifteen

Early in March, Ian and his companions met again with the two Caughnawaga guides outside the military base and they left Albany. A fair day, soft winds rippled signals of early spring. But they were not deceived as they started for the trails to plunge into the freedom of the forest. More heavily burdened with provisions than when they left Quebec, they knew they were going back to the last of winter.

The five of them took a last look at Albany, a city of well-stocked Dutch houses along the Hudson. A welcoming city where they had been so well received and entertained, a city of unruffled conservatism and of tranquil picturesqueness. They took a last look at the military installation on the hill, headquarters of the North American campaign.

The Caughnawagas offered safety on the trail, they would be with them as far as the Farnham farm in the vicinity of Fort Ticonderoga and Crown Point. Then they would leave the southern boundaries to make good time on Lake Champlain, pass St. John and into the Richelieu River. It would be more navigable now than in January. Past Trois Rivières, they would be on the home stretch.

Ahead of them lay a broad tract of wilderness, shaggy with primeval woods. Inumerable streams would be crossed, rivulets that would gurgle beneath their shadows. They would be drenched with rains but dried out at campfires by gleaming lakes in fiery sunsets. The wastes between the questionable French and English lines were ranged by savage allies. Ian hoped they would encounter none.

The expedition into the colony of New York had toughened them all. But Ian could hardly wait to see the skyline of Quebec again. Away this long, he now realized that Canada had a vigor of its own. And the memory of Marie-Louise had a strength of its own. If he had thought the distance the journey put between them might help to forget her, so far it had not worked. As they left the safety of Albany, Ian was still in awe of Amherst and all the forts that he was still working on, Fort William Henry, Fort Edward, and to the west Oswego, Fort Toronto and Fort Niagara, also the building of roads. It was no wonder he hadn't come to Quebec to join Wolfe. After Ensign Higgins had brought him the victorious news last October, there had been no need.

Now, Montreal was targeted for the next prize to solidify the possession of Canada for the British Crown. And he was bringing plan and map copies of the three-prong attack back with him along with the famous strong spruce beer recipe. When would it happen? What would Murray say? What next? They had better reach Quebec first. Anything could blow up in their faces long before the advance on Montreal.

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